A time zone separation of 3 hours, in reality,
is nearly impossible.
When the soft sun is lifting your eyes in morning, I’ve already been up.
When I’m sleeping,
you’re still perched brightly on the cheek of the night sky,
etching love letters into its velvet.

I wish there was a way to yank back the clock’s hands,
peel at the skin of its fingertips
so we could live in a single minute
together,
counting the music of seconds,
like blood
rushing through our entwined arteries.

There was a time when we sat
on a dusky mountain face
and watched the moon rise.
You told me to find the comfort in
the fact that it’s always the same moon
no matter the distance.
Last night, the sky was too dark to tell.

Maybe there will come a day
when you’re not in L.A.
and I’m sick of New York
and we reconvene in Paris,
or Tokyo,
or maybe, a small meadow,
as the grass dances red
in the sun’s final hours,
where time
is antiquated
and we measure the passing of days
with the songs of sparrows.

Until then,
we’ll send our love through telephone wires
and call it
even
if it takes me 2 weeks to get back to you.